Mistakes
by Missie DuCaine
Summary: A convoluted voyage into the mind of a blue-skinned killer. Shes made some mistakes. (Rated for language)


Mistakes 

Category:X-Men: The Movie

Genre: Angst/Drama

Rating: Pg-13

Summary: A convoluted voyage into the mind of a blue-skinned killer. She's made some mistakes.

Disclaimer: Okay, look. I am a poor highschool student trying to pay her way through university. If I owned X-Men, don't you think I'd be making some _money_ off this kind of thing?! And _besides_ that, if I _did_ own the X-Men, none of you would ever see Logan, because he would be locked away in my bedroom 24/7. So there. I have nothing save a computer and some newspaper clippings of Logan on my wall. Don't sue me - you don't want those.

  


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She wasn't going to lie about it. She'd made mistakes. And more than her fair share, when one got right down to it. She knew of humans - weak, pathetic creatures - who would have killed themselves at half the mistakes she'd made. But she _wasn't_ human. 100% pure _homo superior_. 

And she hadn't made little mistakes, either. She had made major mistakes - mistakes that cut her to the quick. Her most recent mistake haunted her every time she woke in the morning, every time she went to bed at night, every waking moment. She was a mistake named Nerissa Blossum.

Such a sweet, innocent girl, once you got past her initial rough, tough-as-nails attitude. She'd known that under the girl's protective 'don't touch me' exterior, there was a little girl struggling to get out. And she could help her, of course. So she convinced her to join their cause, convinced sweet Nerissa to become one of the Brotherhood. Join her, and Pyro, and Erik, and Firebrand, the man who'd discovered that Sabretooth was, in fact, still alive, and he too, had rejoined them. And then, sweet innocent Nerissa...was viciously raped and beat by Sabretooth. That son of a bitch...dammit! She'd already been hurt enough by the damn humans, did the _bastard_ have to destroy her last hopes in mutantkind too?! She was so furious, for poor Nerissa's sake, fury would have let her kill Sabretooth right there. Her only consolation was Erik's promise that they could dispense their own brand of justice. 

Pyro helped her. He was an old classmate of Nerissa's - she'd heard a rumor that he used to have a crush on her. Sweet vengeance had filled her as she and the boy lit the guilty. And they would have burned him alive, too, had Firebrand, the one who'd _found_ Sabretooth - not stopped them. He gave two very valid reasons:1) Sabretooth was too valuable an asset to loose, and 2) He would now have to suffer the _very_ extensive burn wounds for the rest of his life. They reluctantly agreed - but for the second reason, not the first. Nerissa did not leave, as she had feared she might. Instead she clung close to her, but fearing men so much that she could barely stand to even to be around Erik. Dear Erik, who did whatever he could to help the girl. He was like a father to her, and Nerissa even said so - but she still could barely stand to have him touch her. It tore her up inside to see Nerissa this way - so sweet, full of so much potential - then destroyed in the single act of a brutal _animal_. She did whatever she could, offered comfort, strength, a mother's presence. She wanted nothing more than to nurse her poor little girl back into the strong self she had been before - that, and slowly rip out Sabretooth's intestines. Why did all her attempts destroy other's lives?!

And what about the time before that? Oh, Aimee. If _only_...if only she'd been there. Just a baby, really, a tiny girl barely into her teens, corrupted into something...something else. Something like herself. How could the world do something like that to a little girl?! Ah, Aimee, shapeshifters _always_ get the short end of the stick. _Always_. She'd been the only mother the girl had, since her real mother expelled her from her home. Bitch. All the girl did was wake up one morning with black eyes - how _could_ she?! Little Aimee had taken the first step into becoming something else when she turned herself into a prettier version of her mother - and did enough to ruin her mother's life for many, many years to come. 

She'd have stopped her. She would have tried to make little Aimee understand. If she gave herself up like that, then there would be no turning back. Her entire life would be controlled by others. Dear little girl...and then she lost everything. All she could remember was that horrible realization that she'd arrived too late. Cradling her as a baby, trying to only convey her emotions, she could only watch helpless as little Aimee's face took on the face she had been unable to retrieve in life. 

Aimee...she would have told you that beauty isn't everything.

Rogue, forgive her. Please. She wanted anything but your death. Had she known...she would follow Erik to her death, or his. She would. But in Rogue's case, she would have done...something. Something to save her. Maternal instincts kicked in the moment she saw her, limp, weak, helpless. Mother's instinct, need to save the child. Need to hold her, save her. When she saw her later, she wanted nothing more than to reach out, smooth her sleek, bi-colored hair, tell her how sorry she was. But Erik was there. No. She would never act against Erik. But she wanted so greatly to reach for Rogue, ignore her mutation, hug her as close as she could. Be the mother to the girl who could never again have a mother. Kiss that pale forehead, let her know she cared. 

But she didn't. She stood silently behind Erik, her thoughts hidden behind her eyes.

And her boy. To think...she had a little boy. Well, not so little anymore, was he? She saw herself in his eyes, his face, the lazy curls that spiraled over his forehead. And she saw herself in his pain, his winces, his fear. She heard herself in his voice, and in that voice - she heard his father. Bastard. He'd wanted to destroy her little boy. He'd wanted to _kill_ little Kurt - _her_ little Kurt. No one would touch her son. She would run. And then she lost him. Someone told her once that she threw him away, tried to kill him, to save herself. No. She couldn't believe that. They _stole_ him from her, damn humans. They _stole_ him, _they_ tried to kill him, and her too. She _saved_ him. He was Moses, and she had intended to be Pharaoh's daughter - she would save him at the Nile's end. But she lost him. Dear boy, she _lost_ him. She looked - but he wasn't there. He was gone.

She thought her little Moses, her little boy, her little Kurt, had died. She thought he was gone. And then she saw him, all grown up. Grown up without her. But there was no doubt. It was her little boy. Noone else could be mistaken for her little boy. She knew his face better than any other could. And she regretted not having seen that little face grow up. More than anything. 

Anything...except one thing.

Her first mistake. No, not her first, but the first that mattered. All other mistakes before, and, in fact, all mistakes after, faded in the light of her first. A little girl, blonde pigtails, wide gap-toothed grin as she looked up at her with wide, thrusting yellow eyes. Her heart bled for that tiny girl. Little hands - ungloved then - reaching up for her. She was normal to her. She had a father, a man that loved both her and her tiny child. Flesh of her flesh. Fruit of her loins, as the phrase goes.

But such a perfect child - no child that perfect could be a mistake. _No_ child could be a mistake. Her mistake was letting herself believe she was safe. She would be safe there, deep in the forest, protected by a man that loved, and for the first time, understood, her. Graced with the most powerful responsibility - the love of a child. 

That morning tore at her inside. Ripped her heart open, an old wound that never healed. Ripped open every time she heard a word spoken in Russian, every time she saw a mother holding her daughter, every time she saw mutant hunts in the news. Going to answer the door, an angel in her arms, expecting her neighbor. Seeing instead, men in dark uniforms, searching for mutants. Backing up quickly, trying beyond anything she had tried to do before to hide her child's eyes. Failing - and running screaming to her husband. Her husband, that stood over her - protected her. No one had protected her that way before, and none had since. Used his own body as a shield, to stop the rage of what came next. 

How can something so small, something so innocent looking as a small cylinder of metal, rolling, tinkling gracefully across the floor, how can that hurt so much? How can something so small blast a full-grown man apart, rip a child from your arms, fling you through a wall? How can something so innocent destroy a home, erupt forests into flames, scar your mind so that you will never again be the person you were before? 

Her angel was lost. Gone. She lay, bleeding, amongst trees, feeling the agony of a thousand deaths, smelling her own burned skin. Her husband had been torn apart, reduced to a bloody mass that was no longer even recognizable as human. Her baby girl had been flung away from her, and was lost. Her mind changed. Humans had done this to her. Humans had destroyed the only man she'd ever loved that had loved her back. _Humans_ had destroyed the most perfect thing that ever was. And humans would pay for that.

Much later, years, decades later, the impossible happened. She again believed in angels. There she was, bigger than she was before, her teeth grown back, her blonde hair hanging long. Her grin was gone, her hands were gloved, and more pain than any human - or mutant - should ever face haunted those blue eyes. But it was her angel. She had to be. Her tongue formed the Russian words, her skin bore the scars of a autumn Russian morning. And behind her eyes still hid the traces of blue that she had tried so hard to hide on her before. It was impossible that she was alive - _impossible_, damn it! But she was. And only, maybe, a dozen years older. At least, to the human eye. But her eyes weren't human eyes, and she saw what no one else did - that her eyes were not blue. That they almost _glowed_ yellow. That her tilt of the head, that her smile, when she graced others with it, was the same as hers. Her angel's voice held hers - and, yes, it held her father's. 

She knew now, that everything she had done, every attempt, had been made to try and retrieve that feeling. To find again, that strength and comfort that came from knowing that she was loved, needed, wanted. To see the sweet smile that a child gives her mother. And she would find it. She would find her angel. Poor, sweet angel. 

Your mother loves you. She does, you know. Erik loves you too. He wants nothing more than to be allowed to be that father you need. You have love, angel, you have friends. You have teachers, you have mentors. You even have understanding. But you need your mother, angel, and a father. Forgive her please, for her mistakes. Let her be your mother again.

Let Mystique be a mother again.

  
  


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Okay, so it was odd. I thought it was interesting, but that might be because I wrote it really late at night. Much past my bedtime. When I should have been studying for the exams that come next week. Oh yeah. Those. 

  


Review!!! Or I'll make Professor Xavier and his nifto mind-bending telepathicness MAKE you write! There. I have ranted. You review.


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